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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110746">latibule</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/loupettes/pseuds/loupettes'>loupettes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:47:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>682</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110746</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/loupettes/pseuds/loupettes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I hate being the only adult in the room.”</i>
</p><p>Tentoo x Rose, with child. And Jackie. Fluff</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>latibule</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dialogue prompt: “I hate being the only adult in the room.”</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Marco?”</p><p>“Polo.”</p><p>It was in these moments he <em>deeply</em> missed his heightened senses, in particular of the auditory variety. It seemed terribly inconvenient of the human biological processes for senses to <em>weaken</em> over time with overexposure and experience. Even <em>more</em> unfair that, he discovered, he’d pulled the short straw with the time lord half of his hybridised system, because the only thing he <em>had</em> appeared to inherit thus far from his preceding incarnation was his inability to say no to that extra slice of cake, his colder body temperature and a particular fondness for little gift shops in uncoupled places. All three of which were in fact, objectively, <em>bloody useless.</em></p><p>“Marco?”</p><p>“Polo.”</p><p>How on <em>Earth</em> does this child sound even further away than before? He’s called out “Marco” at the very least 26 times. How many damn tables are there in this mansion to hide under? How many cupboards in Jackie Tyler’s abode actually do lead to Narnia? He’s <em>6</em> for Christ’s sake. He’s being bested by a 6-year-old in a lavishly dubbed but otherwise ordinary game of hide and seek.</p><p>“Marco?”</p><p>“Polo.”</p><p>That, he recognises, is not his son’s voice. Even without centuries of acquiring exquisite deduction skills, he’s quick to note this voice is that of a woman’s. Possibly his wife’s, although he can’t be certain due to its restrained tone, holding in an imminent outcry of giggles. He also recognises this voice originated not from whence his son’s had come. He became hyper-aware now that he was being attacked from all angles and instinctively ducked down in an attempt to hide his oftentimes flailing form. </p><p>“Marco?”</p><p>“Polo.”</p><p>He’s furious, at this point, <em>furious</em>, that Rose had managed to trick him into calling their child Marco. Their <em>child</em>. </p><p>“Marco?”</p><p>“Polo.”</p><p>Again, not his son’s voice. <em>But, </em>he surmises,coming from the same direction this time. He was closing in on them.</p><p>“Marco?”</p><p>“Polo.”</p><p><em>Ah-ha!</em> The kitchen, he’s sure of it!</p><p>“Marco!”</p><p>A silence. Not the rules of the game. He freezes, anticipating, bracing himself for what comes next.</p><p>
  <em>“…Polo!” </em>
</p><p>Howled so quickly, a few octaves higher than its erstwhile tone indicated a confirmation! He almost falls over his own footing as he scrambles across the marble floor in his socks. He hears it then, the sneaky little rats. Their manic screeches and thrashing limbs as they scurry to find a new place to hide.</p><p>
  <em>Not the rules of the damn game!</em>
</p><p>And that’s when he smacks into her. </p><p>Jackie Tyler, provoked and, much to his horror, still standing. He can tell by her dishevelled hair and fatigued skin that she’s not long been awake. His ability to pick up on Jackie’s exasperation with him and an impending slap at any given moment was a sense he’d quickly discovered he had <em>not</em> lost. He knew, at every second of his existence, the perpetrator of his untimely demise will be Jackie Tyler.</p><p>“<em>Right! </em>That’s <em>it!</em> I’ve had enough of you lot scramming around when everyone else is trying to sleep! What would you have done if this cup had been filled with boiling water!”</p><p>That <em>face</em>. The face that instilled more fear into every atom of his frame than anything else he had seen in the lives of either and all versions of himself. He avoids it <em>at all costs</em>, which is why, at times like these, he feels the intense urge to call out to Rose one final plea to take care of their son after he’s gone.</p><p>“POLO!”</p><p>Before he can hastily calculate the implications of having both remaining members of his immediate family descend upon him, most likely knocking Jackie to the ground in the process, he finds himself pinned under the approximate combined weight of 196.4 pounds associated with his wife and child. His groan of pain is easily hushed by their giggles, and even more so by Jackie’s sigh. </p><p>“I hate being the only adult in the room,” she mutters. And with that, she pours a dash of milk and two sugars into her cup before stepping over the 80%-human-20%-time-lord mass on the floor.</p><p> </p>
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